


Sussex Nightmares

by okapi



Series: Spooky & Kooky (the Halloween fics) [14]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bees, But no major character death, Dogs, Dolls, Fear, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Nightmares, Not cuddly & sweet, Retirement!lock, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Sherlock Whump, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-07 13:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16409177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Holmes's fears come to haunt him.ACD Retirement!lock. Holmes WHUMP! A horror story.





	1. Physical Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mycroft quote is not mine, but the inimitable Sans Patronymic's from a [tumblr fill](http://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/177169628965/r-by-the-water-any-way-you-like-but-i-would).

The hounds were on my heels. My trespassing upon their domain had been purest accident but what consideration have the merciless ever spared for intention?

There were demon-curs of night-black fur, phosphorescent eyes and pointed toothy smiles.

They were hunters. I was prey.

It’d been folly to think I could outrun them, but to fight would have been swift suicide.

I had to try to make it back to the cottage. To Watson.

I thought of Dartmoor, but that was so long ago. I was an old man now.

I heard their ragged breath.

And my own.

And then—

ARGH!

* * *

The first voice I heard was not near, but rather far off, as if in a dream, and it was not Watson’s, but rather Mycroft’s.

_I’m not convinced the countryside is the best place for an old man. Suppose you step in a fox hole and wrench your ankle. How long do you suppose until someone happens by to help you?_

Not night.

Day!

Not hounds.

Squirrel!

The squirrel was curious enough to investigate, but not reckless enough to loiter. With a flick of a bushy tail, he disappeared.

Pain.

I was hurt.

But where?

Head. I shifted. Ankle. Left.

I turned my head and observed something beside me, half-buried in the fallen leaves.

Long stem of wood.

Sharp teeth, but unlike the devil-hounds, only one set.

Rake.

Watson’s damned rake! It was always where it shouldn’t be! Leant, propped, fallen, abandoned, lost…

Memory surfaced like writing on a palimpsest.

Morning.

Watson making tea because there wasn’t any missus…

I sighed.

Watson…someplace without me…

Sunday!

Check on the bees.

Watson’s rake.

Hidden in leaves.

WHAM!

Pain.

Stepping blind.

Into a foxhole.

Falling, falling, fallen.

_But where had the hounds come from?_

If it was a dream, I was the fox.

* * *

I had to make it to the house before Watson arrived. It would be a terrific shock if he discovered me in this position, prostrate with injury, and perhaps in his haste and anxiety to reach me, he might even suffer the same fate. And then where would we be? Lying on the ground until the ‘morrow when Missus Something returned.

Roll!

ARGH!

Rising to standing was out of the question. There was nothing for it but to crawl.

Damn this aged body! Its tumbling, renting, wrenching wasn’t to be borne!

I must reach…

Half-way to the door, I swooned.

* * *

Church bells.

Must push on.

What would they say if they could see me now, the great Sherlock Holmes reduced to wriggling like a worm towards his own door because he’d compounded the absurdity of stepping on a rake by stepping in a foxhole?

But that was the crux: no one _could_ see me.

If someone was watching, said observer might be induced, deduced, or seduced into providing aide, but here, in this quiet, secluded, almost forgotten spot, I was alone.

It was a nightmare. Like demon-curs.

Just a bit further.

“HOLMES!”

Oh, thank goodness.

Here came the cavalry.

* * *

“What a shock you gave me. I know it’s awful, but I was dreading far worse when I first saw you. I feel terrible about the rake, Holmes. You won’t believe me, but I could’ve sworn I’d put it in the shed. There. That’s the plaister. Now the bandage. Cool compress, too. And it’s on the sofa for at least two days with this foot up. That’ll be quite a change. I daresay you haven’t spent more than hour’s daylight indoors since early spring. It’s October and you’re still brown as a nut.”

“Almost everywhere,” I replied impishly.

He winked.

* * *

“I felt so weak, Watson, so impotent. All I could do was crawl!”

“But thank heavens you could do that, Holmes!”

He was quite correct, but I was not in the mood to be soothed. Not yet, at least. I had a bit of wrath yet to spend.

“It isn’t a grave injury, and it wasn’t a grave accident. Just a bit of foolishness, really. Nevertheless, it rendered me as vulnerable as insect. I’m not accustomed to such feeling. It rankles, Watson. It really disturbs me.”

“I know, Holmes. It isn’t a comfortable feeling, recognising one’s physical decline.”

I harrumphed.

* * *

“You’ll let me fuss?” he whispered. One hand rested on my shoulder while his lips and moustache brushed from eyebrow to jaw along the unbruised side of my face.

I hummed. “A younger man would protest.”

He kissed my lips.

“You’re not a younger man, Holmes. You’ll need help bathing and moving about. I’m not going to delegate that to Mrs. Wilkes.”

“Wilkes!”

“I do wish you’d remember her name. And I’m canceling the trip to London.”

“No, Watson! Your regimental reunion!”

He shrugged. “What will you do in London on crutches, Holmes?”

“Go! I’ll be fine here. With Missus…”

* * *

I leaned back in the bath.

“There are benefits to convalescence…”

Watson grinned.

“…such as a fortifying portion of Mrs. Chesterton’s loganberry tart.”

“Holmes! How on earth did you know—?”

“Watson! How can you be just as awestruck as that first day in Barts?”

“Because you’re just as extraordinary.”

I kissed him, then whispered against his cheek.

“Mrs. Chesterton’s so-called Parisian hat is moulting. You deposited a tiny pink feather on the rug. There was a small but unmistakable smudge of her face powder on your jacket. Allowance for such proximity could only be in exchange for dessert.”

“Brilliant!”

* * *

“A professional question, Watson.”

“Yes?”

“Is it possible to dream whilst unconscious?”

“You mean delirium?”

“Outside the presence of fever. What I mean is this, after I struck my head and fell, I think I had a dream. Not just a dream, but a nightmare.”

“You remember it?”

“Vividly. Hounds, more ferocious, more fearsome that the one we knew in Dartmoor, were chasing me. I was terrified. I ran and when they were just upon me, I woke up on the ground.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s possible. Holmes, I really don’t think I should leave you.”

“Go.”

* * *

WHACK!

The washing-up noises stopped.

“Is that seven with one blow, my dear Holmes?”

“Only three. Household hygiene standards of the kind you and Mrs. Wilkes hold would never permit more.”

“Well, you can fret all you’d like about getting older, but your reflexes and your mental faculties are as sharp as ever. Really, the only chink in your armour appears to an Achilles heel, or ankle, that is.”

“Perhaps.”

“Shall I make you a bed on the sofa?”

While I considered the suggestion, Watson forged ahead.

“Just in case? If I know you, you’ll fall asleep reading.”

“Very well.”  


	2. Impotence

Throb.

Urgent.

Darkness.

I stood. Shuffling slipper-shod feet carried me through the backdoor and out into the night.

Throb.

Urgent.

Darkness.

The bees buzzed as if it were mid-summer, high noon, crisscrossing my path in their telegraphic dance-flights.

Urgency built. I sought relief.

Where?

Slippers trod. Eyes searched.

There!

An old-fashioned wicker skep with a little arch door.

Step. Step.

Buzz. Buzz.

The bees followed behind, clinging like a royal bride’s train to the hem of my nightshirt.

The skep was hung by a thread at waist-level.

I lifted my nightshirt and pushed my throbbing prick through the hole.

ARGH!

* * *

Throb.

Urgent.

Darkness, but not silence.

Not buzzing, dear God, please, not buzzing!

Not buzzing…I listened, head inclined…snoring!

Of the loud, former soldier, retired doctor, tomato and rose gardener extraordinaire variety.

I sighed and sank back. One hand flew to my damp brow, the other to my crotch.

Throb.

Urgent.

I reached low and found my crutches on the floor beside the sofa.

Soon I was hobbling around the sitting room obstacles towards the hall.

I gritted my teeth as I emptied my bladder but reminded myself it could be much worse.

_At least my prick wasn’t covered in bees!_

* * *

“Oh, Holmes! You look as if you passed a poor night.”

“I woke early.”

“I’ll say. I was certain I’d catch you sleeping.”

I lowered my voice. “I was just wishing I’d caught you sleeping.”

An eyebrow rose.

“I wasn’t very chivalrous yesterday, Watson.”

“You were injured! And it isn’t as if I keep a tally!”

“I do. Of everything. Watson…”

“You’re hurt.”

“My wrist is fine. My reflexes and mental faculties you said yourself are in top form. Quick, before we hear the jangle of Mrs. Wilkes’ keys.”

“Oh, you devil,” he muttered as he untied his dressing gown.

* * *

“What’s wrong, Holmes?”

“I’m allowed fresh air, aren’t I? I made it here without accident or incident, with crutches, though.”

“Of course, but, well, you were very kind to Mrs. Wilkes.”

“Is kindness irregular?”

“You’re never unkind to her, but this morning, it seemed as if you were, well, not yourself.”

There followed a companionable silence of the kind that can only rest between two who have known each other as long and as well as Watson and I have.

Finally, I spoke truth.

“I had a troubling dream.”

“Of hounds?”

“No, it concerned bees.”

“Tell me, if you’d like.”

* * *

Watson was pale.

We sat side-by-side on the bench that we’d carved and crafted together for the very use to which we were putting it. We looked out upon what Watson called his ‘wild garden’ and then further to the slope of downs, watching autumn leave its quiet mark on the landscape.

“That’s quite a dream, Holmes.” Watson’s gift for understatement was decidedly part of his charm. “Was it responsible for the,” he lowered his voice, “youthful vigour on display earlier this morning?”

“I wanted to be certain I could still please you.”

Watson coughed. “No doubts there, I trust.”

I studied the ground and shook my head.

As was his custom, Watson preferred to gaze straight ahead, as if daring the horizon to challenge him in a quixotic joust.

“Maybe it is the time of year that makes you,” he paused, an interrogative lilt in his tone when he pronounced, “fearful, uncertain.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Shorter days, cooler days,” Watson mused aloud.

“But why this autumn?” I countered.

We might have been back in our rooms in Baker Street, discussing the motives and means of a criminal.

“The Case of the Naughty Nightmares,” Watson announced with a mirthless chuckle.

I stifled a yawn.

“Come back to the house and sleep, Holmes. I’ll sit by your side if you’re afraid.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid!” I snapped. My face flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, Watson.” I reached out and covered his hand, the one that was curled atop the handle of his walking stick, with mine. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” he said gently, placing his free hand atop mine. “You’re tired. You’re injured. You’re upset. We haven’t a cat, so you kick me.”

“Doesn’t make it correct, for you or the cat.”

He whispered. “Come, sleep.”

“Oh, all right.”


	3. Technology

The moon-faced gentleman was laughing.

Cackling.

His head was round like a plate. His tiny top hat was cocked jauntily on one side of the dome. In his hand rested a bronze duck’s head, the handle of a gentleman’s walking stick; between the fingers of his other hand was twined a length of gold chain, which led to a glassless monocle perched in his eye.

His lips were pink. His teeth were white. His expression was clownish. And menacing.

And he was smoking a cigarette, blowing puff after puff in my direction as gears turned.

He was terrible, terrifying figure.

* * *

The moon-faced gentleman had a young nephew whose skin was smooth porcelain and whose eyes were dark with curling lashes.

The boy sat at his desk. His arm reached, quill in stiff fingers.

As gears turned, the boy’s eyes flitted. As gears turned, the boy’s head nodded. As six thousand gears turned, the boy’s quill bestowed the precise amount of pressure upon the parchment to produce writing.

He wrote.

Slowly, carefully, beautifully.

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

The boy stopped to dip the quill in the well.

* * *

The boy had two sisters.

One was an artist.

Leaning over her own desk, with her auburn hair piled high and white lace cascading from her neck like a waterfall, she drew a head in silhouetted profile. With swift, sure strokes of her pencil, like gashes of a knife through soft flesh, the caricature took shape.

It was me.

There was my nose. There, my chin. There, my cheekbone and nape and cranial slope.

And all the while, her brother continued writing.

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

* * *

Not far away sat the other sister at her organ.

One thick blonde coil escaped its crowning confines and hung down her back. The bright blue ribbon around her neck matched her dress.

But her dark eyes, like those of her siblings, belonged only to what was before her.

Her art, her instrument.

Eyes gleamed. Gears turned. Arms reached. Fingers touched keys.

Perhaps, beneath billowing blue skirt, feet touched pedals.

She played.

She played a requiem. She played a dirge.

While her sister drew my face.

While her brother wrote my fate.

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

* * *

It grew louder.

The thousands of gears, tooth by tooth, turning.

Gnashing. Chewing.

It grew louder.

The scratch of quill on foolscap. The scrape of lead on paper.

Cutting. Carving.

But, mostly, it was the low moans of the organ that grew louder.

Porcelain mouths could not open. Porcelain tongues could not speak.

Nevertheless, three young voices chanted while their uncle cackled and smoked.

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

* * *

The music grew softer, like fading thunder, but the noises blended into one sharp, shrill shriek.

Die!

DIE!

I woke screaming.

But I was not the only one.

I tumbled from the sofa, thrashing and flailing.

Overturning things, spilling things, breaking things, scattering things.

Someone was being murdered.

My shouts were of alarm and confusion, but the scream, I noticed between panicked breaths, was not mine.

Not mine. Not human.

Blood cold, I reached for my crutch and listened.

Something was being murdered and as it died, it seemed to be screaming.

Or, perhaps, whispering.

_Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

“WATSON!”

* * *

“HOLMES!”

His voice was faint and came from without.

“Are you all right, Holmes? I’m coming!”

* * *

“Good Lord!”

I was still on the floor, surrounded by debris and damage, when a horror-struck Watson rushed to my side.

“Are you all right, Holmes?”

“Yes, yes” I reassured him. “Well, other than yesterday’s injury.”

“What’s all this? What’s happened? And what in heaven’s name is that noise? Where is it coming from? Oh, the gramophone.”

“The gramophone?”

“I put it on just before I went out to help Mrs. Wilkes with that bag of windfall apples. I’m sorry, Holmes, thought it would be soothing for you.”

He drew the knife from the mantelpiece and set about the apparatus.

The room was mercifully silent, save for Watson’s tut-tutting.

“Oh, dear,” he mumbled. He was bent behind the machine, his face hidden, but I heard the grimace in his tone. “That’s awfully unpleasant. I wonder how it got in there.”

I pushed myself to sitting. The ankle throbbed.

“What is it, Watson?”

Ignoring my appeal, he continued to mumble to myself, “I am going to have to clean this very well.”

“Watson!” I cried.

He finally straightened himself and raised his hand.

And there, dangling from his fingers by a long thin tail, was a small lump of bloody fur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the 1891 [smoking moon-faced man](http://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/178158702840/amazing-animatronics-lune-fin-de-si%C3%A8cle). These are the other three 18th century automatons: [ the writer, the organist, and the artist](http://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/178392136495/sauntering-vaguely-downwards-kittyknowsthings).


	4. Mental Weakness

They were following me.

The faceless ones.

I needed that thing.

The hard thing with holes.

The hard thing that threw the small hard things very fast and very hard.

That would stop them, the faceless ones that were following me.

I needed that thing. Or the other thing.

The hard…

…stick!

I knew how to use the hard stick. I could stop them with it.

But I had only this wooden one.

Nevertheless, I would turn. I would fight.

I was a bonny fighter.

They had hair, clothes.

But no eyes.

No nose.

No mouth with which to scream.

* * *

“Holmes! Put the crutch down! You’re scaring Mrs. Wilkes.”

I ran.

But I did not get far.

“Holmes!”

I turned. I raised the wooden stick.

He had hair, a moustache.

“It’s me, Holmes.”

I’m a bonny fighter, even without the hard stick or the thing.

“Please put down the crutch,” said me. “If you don’t, you’re probably going to…”

“ARGH!”

I was on my back, looking up.

“It’s me, Holmes.”

“Me,” I repeated.

“It’s Watson.”

A mouth bloomed on the near-blank canvas of the face.

Watson?

Eyes appeared, as if sketched by an unseen hand.

Watson?

Then, a nose.

Watson?

* * *

I grunted, leaned heavily on my companion as he helped me to my feet.

“I have to…”

I looked about.

“What, Holmes?”

“Privy,” I mumbled.

“I’ll help you.”

I shook my head.

“I’m a doctor and a soldier. I’ll help you. By that tree. You can lean on it, and me.”

I gritted my teeth.

“Holmes! How long has this hurt?”

“Long?” I echoed with an anguished pant.

“O, foolish creature. Mystery solved. When we return to the cottage, you’re going to take the medicine I give you and you’re not going to grumble. No wonder you’re off your head.”

* * *

I woke to eyes staring at me, to a face etched with the gravest of concern.

“Watson,” I murmured. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Oh, Holmes!” he sighed, and the look of blissful relief that swept his features made my cheeks warm with shame.

I couldn’t remember the details, but I knew that I’d put the man I loved to much trouble. His change of expression told me so. I did not want to be a burden to Watson, then or ever, and I vowed to consent to whatever my love next asked of me, no matter how unpleasant.

* * *

“Holmes, I am a doctor, you know.”

“I know.”

“You should tell me when somethings hurting you, no matter how indelicate.”

I nodded. Then I sensed, or rather heard, we were not alone in the cottage.

I launched a shot in the dark.

“I apologise to you, Watson, and I will also apologise to Mrs. Wilkes.”

It was good one, judging by the second wave of relief that washed across Watson’s face.

“I gave you a sedative as well as the preparation for the infection. I needed to go to the chemist’s in the village to get more medicine and…”

I waited.

“…with your approval, I’ve engaged the services of a nurse. Now, wait! Before you object, it’s just for the three days I’ll be gone to London and she’ll just check on you twice a day: to ensure you’ve taken your medicine and help you if you need anything. She’s Mrs. Wilkes’ niece, in fact, and well, if you don’t agree to it, I’ll have to cancel my trip to London, and, well, I’m afraid we’ll also be in the market for a new housekeeper.”

Oh, no. I’d behaved worse than I suspected.

“Very well, Watson. Show her in.”

* * *

The penitent schoolboy recited his apology. The penitent patient took his medicine. The penitent invalid—for was there a less ignoble word that fit the circumstance? no, I thought not—met his nurse.

Dutifully.

‘Twas all done dutifully.

Only the gradual abating of Watson’s anxiety kept the bile in my throat from rising.

The nurse was a tall, competent-looking, straight-backed version of her aunt, and she reminded me of someone...

Oh, the memory was going. The mind, too.

No! Not the mind!

Let all but that waste away…

Watson appeared, smiling. “Doesn’t she look just like—?”

“Miss Violet Hunter, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your psa for the day: uti's in the elderly are no joke.


	5. Isolation

Watson’s face was ever an open book to be read. I watched him as he packed his bags. His concern at abandoning me warred with his excitement at his prospective journey. In the end, the latter proved victorious. I observed in silence, and it was the first time since our arrival at the cottage that I doubted the decision of our retirement. It had been my choice, of course, my selection of locale, even of domicile. Watson seemed content, but I wondered if he secretly missed the busy London life. I wondered if, upon my death, he would return there.

* * *

I was alone.

I reminded myself that Watson was still in the world, still in Sussex if the train was not early.

And he would return the day after tomorrow.

Nevertheless, I was alone.

A stab of panic, of infantile delusion that what could not be seen could not be, gripped me.

My cheeks warmed.

I was not a child! I ought not to think like one!

Watson’s last domestic act had been, by request, to move my armchair and stool to the window.

I watched the last of the leaves fall to the ground and the daylight die.

* * *

“I’m a great admirer of your work, Mister Holmes.”

I was gratified by the fact that she did not follow the statement up with a request for an autograph or a series of questions about ‘the one with the dog.’

“Then you are a great admirer of Doctor Watson’s work as well,” I replied.

“Yes. Would you like to come to my aunt’s house for tea tomorrow afternoon? We would love to have you, and it might ease the loneliness.”

“Thank you, but I think it would be too much at the moment.”

“Then perhaps another time?”

“Yes, another time.”

* * *

Under watchful eye, I took my medicine. Then Nurse Wilkes took her leave.

I ate the supper left and, still hobbling about with one crutch, did the washing up.

Silence rolled in like an invisible fog, filling the space around me.

I traded crutch for cane and was pleased when I managed the short walk to the sitting room without any augment in pain.

I brought myself clumsily to the floor and stoked the fire.

I picked out a book and didn’t read.

I picked up violin and bow and didn’t play.

I lay on the sofa. The fire died.

* * *

I woke.

I looked down. Still dressed.

I looked out the window. Late morning.

I reached for my cane and got to my feet.

No sign of Nurse Wilkes.

I would meet her on the road then.

I left out the front door.

I walked.

The ankle did not pain me. The cane was useless. I let it drop by the roadside.

I walked.

I reached the nearest neighbour.

Cottage doors were wide open. There was no one about.

Not a soul.

* * *

I kept walking, expecting Nurse Wilkes on the horizon.

She did not appear. No one appeared.

I walked.

Every residence I approached, the scene was the same.

The doors of the cottages were left wide open, but there was no one in the gardens or on the lawns. There were no sounds emanating from the sheds.

There was no one hanging laundry or tending sheep or children. There was no one headed down the lane.

No carts. No wagons.

I was alone.

* * *

Finally, I reached Stackhurst’s house. He was headmaster of the nearby preparatory school and someone for whom I had more than a polite regard.

I strode up to his door, determined to get an answer to this widespread vacancy of personage.

Was it a holiday?

I crossed the threshold, calling Stackhurst’s name, then turned.

He was lying on the floor. On his back. In a pool of blood.

The blood was wet. Fresh.

I could see no weapon.

“Stackhurst! What has happened?”

Blood gurgled from his lips.

“I tried to scream…but no one heard…I was alone.”

“I’m going for help,” I told him and hurried towards the village.

The village was empty, and from each doorway, of post office, lending library, church, there trickled a single stream of red.

The streams were all heading towards me.

* * *

I woke.

I looked down. Still dressed.

I looked out the window. Mid-morning.

A kettle whistled.

I jumped.

“Sorry to wake you. Good morning, Mister Holmes. Didn’t fancy the bed, I see?”

The head of Nurse Wilkes peeked out from the doorway to the kitchen.

“Toast?” she asked with a cheerful smile.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied, reaching for the cane

“Egg?”

“No, thank you. Just tea and toast.”

“My aunt’s knee says we’re in for a nasty storm today though I didn’t see a cloud in the sky on my way here. Just goes to show, you never know.”

* * *

I reached for my cane and slowly got to my feet.

The ankle hurt a bit. The rest of me was stiff and sore.

The bed tonight, nightmares and loneliness be damned!

I hobbled out the front door.

Carts. Wagons. Dogs barking. Bells.

Voices calling.

“Mister Holmes?”

The cry was repeated thrice before I answered.

“I just wanted to see what the day looked like,” I called from the road.

Upon return, I asked, 

“Your invitation to tea, Miss Wilkes?”

“Oh, yes? It still stands Mister Holmes.”

“Would tomorrow afternoon be an imposition?”

“Not at all. We’d be delighted.”


	6. Natural Phenomena

Watson had not been gone more than twenty-four hours, but already day and night were becoming loosed from their moorings.

Was Watson himself was the celestial body to whom my own rhythms aligned and danced.

It was never so in London, of course, but I wasn’t in London anymore, was I?

After tea and toast and medicine, I spent most of the day in a doze, moving from recumbent position to recumbent position on various pieces of furniture.

I rallied enough to bundle myself up and venture out of doors in the final hour of daylight.

I reached the bench.

* * *

“I always loved this view.”

I jumped.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mister Holmes. I thought you heard me.”

“My fault entirely. So, you’re familiar with the place?”

“Yes, I came here as a child. It was my grandparent’s. When they died, it went to an uncle who lost it.”

“Indeed?”

The wind whipped ‘round, threatening to take my hat off my head. Nurse Wilkes fussed with her muffler.

“Your supper is laid, Mister Holmes, perhaps…”

“Oh, yes, yes. I’ll take my medicine, and you best be on your way. I don’t need your aunt’s knee to know there’s a storm brewing.”

* * *

Tea.

It really was a port in every storm.

Including this one.

Nurse Wilkes’ tea was quite stronger than Watson’s, but it was neither unpleasant nor unwelcome in the circumstances.

I propped my feet up on the stool and sipped.

I looked out the window at the splatter of rain on dark glass and sipped.

I missed Watson and sipped.

And I decided that, no matter how much the wind howled, I would prepare for bed and go to bed as if it were any other night.

The empty teacup made the quietest of clinks when placed in the saucer.

* * *

The storm was not without.

It was within.

I was cowering.

Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes was cowering in his bed, clasping the bedclothes in a white-knuckled grip at his chin, shaking with fear.

I might have been ashamed if I weren’t so terrified.

But I did not cry out. For Watson. Or mother. Or God.

The wind had taken the whole of the roof of the cottage off, and from where I lay, bound by fright, shackled by Nature’s wrath, looked up into the firmament.

Was the sky falling? Or was the bed rising?

* * *

The falling rain blinded me.

I closed my eyes.

The wind still for a few moments, long enough for me to hear it.

Hear them.

The hounds.

They were howling.

At first, the sound was faint, but their savage cries grew louder.

And louder still.

I knew it was them.

The demon-curs of night-black fur, phosphorescent eyes and pointed toothy smiles, with their ragged breaths and their merciless pursuit.

The wind surged again. All was drowned in the gale.

I strained my ears to no avail.

Then the wind stilled for just one moment more.

And I heard their claws scratching on the door.

* * *

As the rain fell from above and the invaders threatened from without, I heard a buzzing.

From beneath.

I was not alone.

The bees were with me.

Thousands who never rested, who never ceased their toil, who hummed as they worked.

Experts at construction, engineering.

At entombment.

Make a bed, then lie in it. Forever.

Was that the plan? To swarm up from beneath the bed?

How many stings could I sustain before my body surrendered?

Or would the hounds get me first?

I was about to put thought to the bizarre equation when I realised that I was not alone.

* * *

I lowered my gaze.

Three figures.

By the bed.

I could not see them so much as their silhouettes, the shapes their bodies made against the grey curtain of rain.

A crack of thunder, though it was not that kind of storm, a flash of lightning.

Dolls. Three porcelain dolls.

Moving ‘round the bed, but not walking, hopping as marionettes do when moved by an unseen hand.

I heard their whispers.

Not louder than the rain, the wind, the howls, the scratching, the buzzing, but rather clearer for I heard them in my heart.

 _Sherlock Holmes is going to die_.

* * *

“Oh, Mister Holmes, you appear to have passed a very poor night, indeed. Did the storm keep you up?”

“Yes.”

The roof was on the cottage.

There were no hounds, no bees, no dolls.

Just a nurse with a furrowed brow.

“Perhaps coming to tea would be too much for you. We could wait for a time when Doctor Watson might accompany you.”

“No, no. I shall be all right by the afternoon. Watson should be arriving late, that is, if he is not too spent by last night’s revelry to travel.”

The last was spoken in a near panic.

* * *

The brow was still furrowed. The spoon stirred solemnly, thoughtfully.

“You know, Mister Holmes, I have what you might call an,” a slight smile, “understanding with Mister Burrows, the village chemist. I could ask him for something to help you sleep.”

“Oh, no. I’m not one for that sort of thing.”

The brow smoothed, but the eyebrows rose slightly.

“Anymore,” I added hastily.

Watson had seen fit to reveal to the world my relationship with ‘that sort of thing.’ The significance of the statement would not be lost on a nurse who was also an admirer.

“Very well,” she said.


	7. Misplaced Trust

Though both were still smiling, a look passed between niece and aunt.

“I apologise,” I said. “I have become a tiresome old man. The kind who has chills and will complain about the lack of a second rug when traveling. I shall be but a moment.”

I alit from the cart and hobbled back to the front door. Though I did not need it, I used the cane, leaning on it heavily as if the ankle still pained me.

I needed support. I needed another limb, another extension to ground me. Until Watson returned.

I found the rug I sought.

As I turned, I realised that, contrary to my custom, I had forgot to write Watson’s name on the exterior of the blue envelope which contained my note for him, telling him of my whereabouts. If Watson’s train was early and if my visit or, more probable, my return transport was late, then I might miss his arrival, and he might be quite concerned to find me absent from the premises. Should I scribble his name on the envelope now? No, the ladies were waiting.

I quashed a surge of anticipation at the thought of Watson’s return and hurried out.

* * *

Mrs. Wilkes appeared carrying an enormous tray with plates of sliced and cups of tea already poured.

“Cake, Mister Holmes?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilkes,” I said, accepting a plate and a cup of very strong tea.

“I so appreciate how Doctor Watson has dedicated himself to reviving the cottage garden. The Saunders were not so keen,” said Nurse Wilkes.

“Perhaps they were keen, but they were not so strong,” said Mrs. Wilkes.

“I never had the pleasure of meeting them,” I said. “The cottage was vacant when I first saw it.”

“They went abroad for their health,” said Mrs. Wilkes.

“You must tire of questions about your cases, Mister Holmes, but here, we’ve so few amusements. We’re not even close enough to the village to appreciate their humble excitements,” Nurse Wilkes laughed, “do tell us what was your favourite.”

“I’ve many favourites, of course.” I forced a smile and fiddled with the handle of my cane and took a sip of tea. “The one involving the busts of Napoleon, for example, had many features of interest…”

“Oh, yes,” cried Mrs. Wilkes. “I like that one, too. So dramatic, the smashing of the plaster and the finding of the magnificent pearl!”

“Not just any pearl,” added Nurse Wilkes. “The Borgia pearl!”

They beamed at one another.

I sipped my tea.

“We would read the stories aloud,” continued Nurse Wilkes, extending her hand and squeezing her aunt’s, “Old copies of _The Strand_.”

Mrs. Wilkes spoke.

“But our favourite story of all…”

“Can you deduce, Mister Holmes, which was our favourite?” asked Nurse Wilkes quickly, her eyes bright.

This was the other thing that I was asked to do quite often in retirement. I smiled and made a show of studying the women, each in turn.

And as I did, my blood cooled.

“Bricks and clay, my dear ladies,” I mumbled apologetically.

Instinctively, I reached for my tea.

“‘A Scandal in Bohemia’” they said.

I sipped, staring into the cup as they carried on.

“Irene Alder.”

“The Woman who beat you…”

“We admired her so…”

“And often discussed…”

“How a woman…”

“Or two…”

“Might beat…”

“The great Sherlock Holmes.”

“Never knowing…”

“That one day…”

“The great Sherlock Holmes would have something…”

“We wanted…”

“And would walk…”

“Right into our parlour…”

“Like the fly…”

“To the spiders…”

I stared into my cup and read the words printed at the bottom.

_You have been poisoned._

* * *

With my finger still in the handle of the cup,

I sprang.

So did they.

I swung my cane.

I hit each but once, but with all my force.

I leapt for the door.

I ran.

They were on my heels.

They were hunters. I was prey.

I had to try to make it back to the cottage.

To Watson.

I was an old man, a foolish old man.

But I ran like a stag.

The ankle may have snapped in two for the notice I took of it.

Tears flowed. Lungs burnt.

Every muscle, every nerve, ever fibre screamed in terror.

I ran.

Without looking back.

My feet found the road to the cottage.

Fear rose.

The poison. The poison in the tea!

What was it? How soon would it take effect?

My head throbbed.

I reached the bend, took one deep breath, and almost stumbled, but flinging myself forward, scrambling to keep my feet under me, I bellowed,

“WATSON!”

Barking!

They’d set the dogs on me!

The barking grew louder.

Then I did stumble, but as I fell, I managed to shake the teacup still hanging from my finger into the air.

Then my body struck the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're inspired, you can have a '[You have been poisoned' teacup](https://www.victoriantradingco.com/item/75-mu-7529785/our-favorite-gifts/toxic-teacup--you-have-been-poisoned) of your very own from the Victorian Trading Company (among others).


	8. The End

“They killed the Saunders, too, of course,” said Watson as he examined my bandages. “The police found their remains buried behind the Wilkes’ home, well, that is the residence in which they were living. By their own accounts, they considered this place their true home.”

“Watson, how…?”

“I was wholly taken in, too, Holmes, but I knew something was wrong when I arrived.”

“The envelope.”

“It didn’t have my name on the outside. And the handwriting was a good forgery, but…” He wrinkled his nose.

“But?” I prompted.

“…I read your first suicide note. I’m not taken in by imitations.”

I smiled. “Was the medicine drugged?”

“Possibly. There’s none left to test. But the tea most certainly was. Some to make you sleep, some to make you hallucinate, one to kill you. Mrs. Wilkes put the mouse in the gramophone.”

“All for the cottage?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I was going mad, Watson.”

“That was their aim. They believed if you were found to have committed suicide that I would sell the cottage and go elsewhere, and I can’t say they weren’t right in their belief. Of course, the village is shocked. ‘They seemed like nice people.’”

“’Kept to themselves?’”

“Precisely.”

“They kept to themselves because they were murderers,” I mused.

“That teacup was positively gruesome,” said Watson. “I don’t know where they got it, but thank goodness you kept it.”

I stared at my bandaged finger. “I don’t remember it cutting into me.”

“You don’t remember the stomach pumping either, I hope. I haven’t done anything that crude since, well, in a long time. Didn’t know what they gave you, just it wanted it out of you.”

“And it worked.”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re in one piece.”

“More or less. The ankle.”

“Ah, the ankle. Do you know Mrs. Wilkes arranged the rake and the hole, too?”

“Fiendish plot. I’d admire it if I weren’t the target.

There was a scratching at the door.

“He’s past ready for his introduction,” said Watson.

“So am I.”

Watson cracked the door and in bounded a splendid bull pup who leapt upon the bed and began licking my face.

“Holmes meet Louie. Louie, Holmes.”

“I owe you a great deal, Louie.” The pup nuzzled under my chin.

“Recompense in the form of table scraps will be accepted. But wasn’t he a policeman’s pup? I shall send full report to Lestrade tomorrow.”

“If he doesn’t read in the papers first, but, yes, by your account, I being not available to observe, it was nothing short of a miracle the way Louie sprang to my defense.”

Watson nodded, then he looked at the floorboards and asked,

“What shall we do now, Holmes?”

“There will be a trial, of course.”

“Yes, naturally, but apart from that, do you care to stay?”

“The gossip, you mean? I suppose it’s tremendous.”

“I don’t mean the gossip. I mean will what’s happened haunt you? Will it make it uncomfortable for you to remain in the cottage?”

“Do you miss London, Watson?”

“I thought I did,” he answered after a long silence. “But this trip showed me otherwise. Murderous housekeepers and nurses aside, I discovered I prefer the slower pace of life. That’s why I took Lestrade up on his offer of the pick of his new litter. I would have returned even earlier if I hadn’t stopped by his place. I might have forestalled the whole attempt.”

“Or we might both have been killed,” I added gloomily. “Well, I want to stay. The nightmares are over. Let’s get on with it.”

“Let’s,” said Watson, and Louie woofed his endorsement.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
